Now Fitz sat forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “Let me take this one step further, Viv,” he said, getting into the spirit of it.
“By all means, darling.”
“Once I have found out the details, there is one thing left to do,” he stated seriously.
Alba, who had remained quiet and watchful throughout, now spoke. “What is that, Fitz?”
“If you really are serious about learning the truth about your mother, then you must go to Italy.”
Alba narrowed her eyes. Although that very thought had often crossed her mind she had never imagined doing it on her own. She had never done anything on her own. She considered Fitz. He was handsome, charming, and kind and obviously in love with her. Let me take this one step further, Fitz, she thought to herself. You’re coming with me.
4
A fter dinner and a third bottle of wine, they moved out on to the deck to lie under the stars that peeped out every now and then from behind heavy black clouds. It was cold, so they lay close together beneath a blanket, staring above rather than at each other. After so much laughter it was inevitable that the wine, combined with the beauty of the tempestuous night, would arouse in them a certain melancholy. Viv thought of her ex-husband and wondered whether her books had replaced the children she had never had. Fitz was unable to think of anything other than Alba’s warm body pressed up against his and the idea of playing such a large role in her salvation, while Alba filled the emptiness in her spirit with the image of her mother’s gentle face.
“I have never known a mother’s unconditional love,” she said suddenly.
“And I have never given it,” said Viv.
“I have had it,” said Fitz. “And it’s the most wonderful thing in the world.”
“Tell me about it, Fitz,” Alba asked. “How is it so wonderful?” She felt as if her chest were being compressed by an invisible object that was solid and heavy.
Fitz sighed. He had always taken it for granted. Now his mind conjured up pictures of those times when, as a small boy, he had run into his mother’s arms for comfort, and he felt desperately sad for Alba, who had never known that.
“As a child you know that you are the center of your mother’s world,” he began. “Nothing comes before you in importance. She’ll sacrifice everything for you and often does, because your health and happiness are so much more important than hers. As a man, you know that whatever you do, however badly you behave, she will always love you. To your mother, you are brilliant, clever, handsome, and special. I cannot speak for everyone, only myself, but I believe that is the way it should be. My mother is my dearest friend. My love for her is unconditional too. But children are selfish. They don’t put their mothers first. Perhaps we should.”
“I should have liked to have had a child,” said Viv in a quiet voice.
“Really, Viv? Would you?” Fitz had never heard her talk about a yearning for children.
“It’s a very deep longing, Fitzroy, and most of the time I do not listen to it. However, when the night is so beautiful and I’m with friends, I start to think about the value of life and my own mortality. It is then that I feel I have somehow missed out on a very important aspect of it. But I am old and those useless thoughts do nothing but corrode one’s spirit.”
“You would have been a good mother,” said Alba truthfully. “I wish you’d married my father instead of the Buffalo.”
“I don’t think I’d like your father,” Viv replied with a gentle cackle.
“No, I don’t suppose you would.”
“Have you met him?” Fitz asked.
“No, but let’s just say that I don’t like the sound of him or his wife.”
“I shall reserve judgment until I meet them,” said Fitz.
“So, you will come?” asked Alba.
He wanted to reply that he’d do anything for her, but she must have heard countless men say those words so he just said that he wouldn’t miss it for the world.
They lay on the deck until the stars retreated and the sky clouded over, giving way to a light, persistent drizzle. The boat began to rock as the river flowed faster, and the creaking and bumping intensified so that Viv decided she wouldn’t even try to sleep but would sit at her desk and write another chapter. Alba had unwittingly opened an old wound. It was no use trying to close it tonight; only daylight could do that and she had no desire to lie in bed chewing over old regrets.
She bade them good night and returned inside where the candles had burned out and the gramophone ground to a halt. Incense still lingered in the air and there was another bottle of wine in the fridge. She took off her turban and caftan and wrapped herself in a cozy dressing gown. Taking off her makeup was always a sobering experience. Without it she looked old. She glanced in the mirror only when she had to and massaged her tired skin with a thick cream that promised to work miracles and turn back the clock. She would have liked to turn back the clock. Done it all again, but differently.